


A Matter Between Men

by ThePaintedScorpionDoll



Series: Scenes from a War-Forged Courtship [13]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Aeron Tabris, Aeron/Alistair, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 20:05:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3622548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePaintedScorpionDoll/pseuds/ThePaintedScorpionDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say that a man reluctant to inherit power is a man qualified to rule, but no one ever seems to ask such men what makes them reluctant in the first place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Matter Between Men

Alistair hesitates a little in the doorway when he reaches the Arl’s office. The last time he was here, he was but a boy, but that is all he remembers about it. The decoration hasn’t changed much that he can see. The furniture looks a little more worn and the shelves hold more books or knickknacks, perhaps, but the greatest changes in the room are the two men standing in it. Both of them are older, more experiences under their belts. Alistair isn’t just the hidden bastard son of a king now, is he? Of course not. He is a Grey Warden. Someone respectable, with power and influence in his own right.

Strange, then, how he has to remind himself of that as he stands there in Arl Eamon’s presence.

“You wanted to see me?”

“I did.” Eamon smiles at him kindly, waving him in. “Come in, come in.”

He shuts the door without needing to be asked. He tells himself to relax, not to wring his hands, to keep still on his feet. There is no reason to be this uneasy. He isn’t being reprimanded for some childish prank. He isn’t being sent off somewhere else. They are discussing things as men—going to, anyway, discuss things as men, whatever these _things_ might be.

So why does Alistair feel like he needs to be ready to defend himself?

“I do hope you will forgive me for my forwardness,” Eamon begins, “but I would prefer to go into this Landsmeet with as few surprises on our side as possible.”

Alistair tilts his head. “I’m not sure I follow. We’ve been as truthful as possible—”

“Yes, well, there are a few things that remain just a touch unclear. I’m hoping you will be able to shed the necessary light on them.”

“Such as?”

There is a moment of uneasy silence. Arl Eamon draws himself up straight, looks the younger man in the eyes.

“What exactly is the nature of your relationship with the other Warden?”

The floor beneath Alistair’s feet feels a touch uneven. “The…nature of it, sir?”

“Given all you two have experienced, it would be safe to say that you are close comrades, are you not?”

A feeling of tension begins to coil its way around him like a snake, starting at his feet. “We…are. She’s proven to be quite formidable as a Warden and dependable as—as a comrade.” He clears his throat. “I trust her.”

“You do?”

“With my life.” Although the Warden wonders if he answered the question a little _too_ quickly. “Duncan saw her potential. He trusted her enough to make her one of us, and she has yet to give me any reasons to believe otherwise. She’s… She has saved my life, sir, maybe more times than I care to count.”

“And she has helped save mine, and for that she has much of my gratitude and respect,” Eamon says. “Still, I would be safe in assuming that you harbor no affections for her, wouldn’t I? At least, none of the kind that would prove compromising?”

The tension rises. Alistair becomes keenly aware of the way his fists are clenched behind his back. The Arl knows, doesn’t he? Of course, he does. Why would he ask if he didn’t know? (Or rather, why would he ask so _calmly_? That has never been his way in such sensitive matters, if ever he brought them up at all.) It isn’t confirmation the Arl wants, even if that is partially what he gets from the young man’s silence.

“I cannot say that I’m surprised. She has a semblance of beauty about her and you are both still in that phase of life when passions burn hot with the smallest spark, but such passions do not last. They burn brightly and fade quickly.”

“This isn’t just—it’s not a—s-simply physical—”

“My boy, it never seems that way in the midst of it. First Love can be as grand a deceiver as it is merely grand.”

“So what, then? You’d have me abandon her for the throne?” Alistair can feel an edge creep into his voice. “And what then? Marry someone else— _Anora_ , perhaps?”

“Or rule alone.” There is no hint of mirth or teasing in Eamon’s face. “If it will ensure the peace, however, then a marriage between you two might have to be arranged.”

“And it doesn’t matter that I don’t love her nor she me?”

“Few rulers have the luxury to marry for love, Alistair, and Ferelden would have trouble accepting…” The Arl shifts in the brief, awkward silence. “These are the sacrifices we make to ensure the kingdom continues. Surely, as a Warden, you know—”

“No, _do not_ use that against me,” Alistair says, beginning to pace. “Maker’s breath, I—am I really to have no say in this at all? I’m to just…continue doing what everyone demands of me while they hope I don’t screw it up, like I always do—”

“Alistair, the nobility in your blood ties your fate to Ferelden’s in such a way that you cannot ignore.” Eamon rounds the desk and approaches him. He puts his hand on the young man’s shoulder and it feels heavier than it should. “If the kingdom is to survive Loghain _and_ the Blight intact, it needs a Theirin on the throne. In Cailan’s absence, that is your responsibility to bear.”

“And why not Anora? She’s a Theirin by marriage, isn’t she? Besides, the people—”

“Public opinion can be and has been fickle, Alistair, especially in times of crisis.”

“Exactly. They don’t know me from a hole in the ground. My whole life has been one well-kept secret for fear of scandal. Anora… The people know her. Love her. They sympathize with her now more than they ever have!” Alistair draws away from the older man, trying to rein in his rising feelings; getting angry now will fix nothing. He takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “More to the point, she has all the makings of a secure leader. She is strong, shrewd, and has so far proven our ally instead of Loghain’s.”

“All admirable traits for a queen to possess,” Eamon says, “but her claim to the throne is more tenuous than yours.”

“Why? Because she couldn’t produce an heir?” The Arl looks as if punched. A small amount of the tension winding itself around the Warden loosens; he relaxes his arms. “We found the letters while revisiting Ostagar. One of them was from you to him, offering advice—”

“Being a king is not simply about ruling in the present. He has to think about the future welfare of his kingdom, of who will take over his reign upon death. Producing an heir is as much about insuring for the future as it is about securing present power. Anora understands that, perhaps more than Cailan ever did—or wanted to, as in love with her as he was.”

Alistair shakes his head. “If being able to produce a child for strategic purposes is a requirement, I’m afraid it’s only going to make me _more_ resistant to this idea of becoming king, never mind even more unsuitable.”

Eamon frowns. There is a vague sense of sympathy in his eyes. “You misunderstand me, Alistair—”

“No, I…I think I understand fairly clearly. But you see, there’s very…” He draws in another deep breath, aware of wringing his hands. “Even if I became king, the Theirin line would end with me. No amount of thinking about the future would insure against that.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Becoming a Grey Warden is more than reciting a simple speech or undergoing ludicrous hazing rituals. Although, there was this one time…” Alistair clears his throat. “What I mean is, what makes me a Warden also means I will be a terrible father, largely because I…can’t become one.”

True, Duncan spoke of that side effect in terms of potentiality rather than actuality, but mentioning that part hardly seems necessary. With something as real as the destruction of all they hold dear hanging over their heads, who has time to deal with maybes?

“And there isn’t any way to reverse it?” Eamon’s voice is low, troubled.

Alistair shakes his head. “So far as I’m aware. But that’s the price we pay, along with our shortened lives, to better able stop the Blight.”

“Maker…” The Arl sits goes to a chair and sits down. “And the other Warden? Does she know—?”

“No.”

And that part is closer to the truth. They have discussed the risk, had to after his accidental discovery of the steps she takes to minimize it. (How she had blushed and fumbled her way through explaining those little green vials, through apologizing for the accidental secret! It was unlike her. The vulnerability was different—less the passionate kind and more frightened. But what had Alistair done? Kissed her and said it was all right; that he understood; that it was important to be responsible.) Alistair almost suspects that when Aeron finds out the actual odds, it will probably leave her feeling relieved.

“It isn’t just…” He settles in the chair across from where Eamon sits. “Being a Warden, it’s… I go out and I fight darkspawn, or I help rescue innocent people—or at least, I try. Sometimes we don’t succeed, but—but all the same, I get to see the consequences of my actions. I get to hear the gratitude of the people I’ve helped. I get to be there to comfort the families of those we couldn’t.

“But don’t you see? I feel like I’m actually _doing_ something to stop this. I’m not just burdening everyone around me with my existence until they give me something to do—”

Arl Eamon straightens in his chair. “You’ve actually felt…?”

“I know that I feel more useful than I could possibly ever be as a king, holed up in a castle, making decisions and hoping they’re the right ones,” Alistair answers. “I mean, to be perfectly honest—and you’ll forgive me for this, I hope—but there really isn’t a whole hell of a lot that I feel certain about, even after all I’ve seen and done. Some mornings, I’m not even sure if I’m putting my boots on the right feet.

“However, I do believe that I’m where I need to be—rather…where I’m _meant_ to be—and I’m doing exactly what I’m meant to be doing.”

“And your fellow Grey Warden?” Eamon asks.

Alistair’s face softens. “I know that I love her, and that she loves me, and that’s enough.”

The Arl lets the air rush through his nose. He gives the younger man a little smile. “Well—I still can’t say I am entirely pleased, but I can at least have the sense to respect the path you’ve chosen.”

“Thank you. That’s—that’s all I could ask for.” The Warden lowers his gaze for a moment. “Then we’re on the same page about this? At the Landsmeet—”

“Yes. Yes, you will have my support in keeping Anora as queen. I’m still not very fond of the idea, but…I don’t have to be.” He looks up as Alistair rises. “I only hope your faith isn’t ill-placed. Ferelden depends on it.”

They part ways not long after. Alistair walks back to his room in silence, turning over the conversation in his mind. He wonders if Arl Eamon might still try to put him on the throne, even with the assurance that they have his support. He wants to trust that this matter is settled and done. Still, some tiny thing nags at the edge of his mind. It whispers to be wary of another attempt, especially now that Eamon very much knows how close their connection runs. His mind threatens to run rampant with a hundred different scenarios until the guilt of having even the tiniest bit of mistrust begins to sneak in.

Alistair gives a little sigh as he slips into the bedroom. _The sooner this Landsmeet is over…_

But he will leave those worries outside of this room, to be readdressed in the morning’s light. Sleep is a grand idea, made all the more appealing by the prospect of not sleeping on some worn-out bedroll tossed over earth stomped flat. Aeron is fast asleep beneath the blankets, clothed in a shirt very clearly nicked from his knapsack. (Perhaps she wasn’t joking when she said she was cold.) This might be the most peaceful she has looked in the midst of it. Maybe they will both get lucky and tonight will be free of Blight-inspired nightmares.

If at least her sleep remains undisturbed, well, it’s still worth calling a successful night.

He blows out the candles and dresses down for bed in the dark. He slips under the blankets as carefully as he can, not wanting to wake her. Still, Aeron stirs some as Alistair wraps his arms around her waist. A soft sound rises from her as he kisses the exposed skin of her neck.

“You're still here,” Alistair tells her softly.

“Said please,” Aeron says drowsily.

He chuckles. “You really would have made me sleep alone if I hadn’t said please?”

“Considered.” She yawns. “Worried…”

“Hm? About what, my love?”

Much of her response is lost in the mumbling language of the mostly-asleep, but he understands the words _come back_ and it makes him wonder if he wants her to clarify. He feels her turn over and curl up against him in the dark. Her fingers gather small bunches of his nightshirt. It reminds Alistair of something from their time among the Dalish—first of how she gripped the fur of his twisted form and then of how she’d held him when he was back to himself. Tight enough that her hands trembled from the effort, like she never wanted to let go for fear of something terrible happening…

“Wish I could…” Aeron yawns again. Her grip relaxes. “Like leaves.”

“Leaves?”

“To show… Mine,” she says much more softly. “Mine. Don’t… Not again. Stay.”

“Always.” Alistair wonders how much of this Aeron might remember in the morning—if she remembers at all. “It’s like we promised. Remember? Together.”

“Together,” Aeron murmurs, barely audible.

Together. Yes. Alistair holds her in the dark and knows his faith is well-placed. This path that he has chosen, _this_ is the right one. It will lead them to victory. It will end in happiness and peace. It has to, and he will do his part to ensure that it does. How could he not, with something much more tangible on the line now?

Alistair closes his eyes and slips into slumber—and, for the first time since before he can remember, not a single nightmare troubles him.


End file.
